


Was that a Dream? (Or was it True?)

by enjolrolo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Burnout - Freeform, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Gen, crowley and zira's entire relationship is an example of idiot plot and i can't believe them, in the non-diagnosed demon sense?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-15 00:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19284286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrolo/pseuds/enjolrolo
Summary: Crowley has always been prone to naps (wonderful thing, naps), but he goes a little overboard when he decides to skip the nineteenth century completely. This doesn't escape Aziraphale's notice.





	Was that a Dream? (Or was it True?)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "a nightingale sang in berkeley square"....obviously,  
> can you believe they put that gay ass song in the show?? i'm feral

Crowley, despite all efforts by Hell to make him otherwise, is an optimist. 

Usually, this leads to  _ good  _ things. Well, at least “good” in the personal sense, not in the general public sense. Like he’s certain that a stroll around the agora will bring him into contact with a certain friend, and so it happens. Sometimes, back when he would do summers in Jericho, he was just sure that the crops would sort themselves out, so that he wouldn’t need to deal with any nasty famine business, and it always seemed to turn out fine. Pity about the whole business with the walls tumbling down, but Crowley had never seen a big wall that didn’t deserve a good toppling, anyway.

Crowley is only a little aware of this. He knows that there’s something to do with positive thinking, or a healthy mindset, or some other pseudo-scientific nonsense that he tries not to learn, but he’s pointedly  _ unaware  _ of the fact that he is, at the end of the day, an occult being. That is to say, a being with more than a little influence over how reality goes on.

He has his limits, though. And the magic caused by his rigidly-hopeful mindset doesn’t work if his aforementioned mindset is starting to get some sand in its gears.

Things are happening in the world, at a faster and faster rate as humans get new countries and more religions and bigger guns. They’re practically doing Crowley’s job  _ for  _ him, which he has had plenty of time to be both pleased and horrified with (he’s still prone to the occasional nightmare about the Spanish Inquisition. The entire 15th century deserves to rot in hell).

Crowley gets news of Napoleon, down in France, who had apparently decided that what France needed was to engage in  _ more _ imperialism. He only hears about this because he gets a commendation for it. Apparently, Europe’s been  _ too  _ at-peace, which seems impossible.

“Isn’t it terrific,” Hastur says, besides himself with excitement-and-jealousy, still covered in bits of the haunted soil he’d risen up through. His ascent had knocked a headstone askew, and Crowley kind of wants to ask if Hastur had run into a skeleton or two on his way up. “I don’t know how you pull these things off.”

“A lady doesn’t reveal her secrets,” Crowley says. He curls his lip, the fakest expression of delight that’s been on his face in a decade. It’s a lackluster attempt, but Hastur doesn’t notice.

“They’re really pleased with you down there.”

“Oh, are they?” Crowley says. He wants this conversation to be over with. “Good. I’ll see you, er, next time, then. Great chat. Got many other things to, um, tempt. You know.”

He doesn’t want credit for these things. They aren’t fun, or clever, or praiseworthy. Even on a practical level, there are going to be  _ less  _ people to mess around with later. 

 

Crowley purchases a small property in Suffolk, and he finds there is a small, homey cottage on the grounds with a flourishing garden, and he resolutely decides to sleep until Armageddon comes. At the rate humanity is going, they’ll just carry on without him.

He lays down on the couch in the drawing room and goes the hell to sleep for the next thirty years. He’s sure that his nightmares won’t be enough to wake him up, and so they don’t; they just rattle around in his skull for years at a time while he gets his beauty rest. There are plenty of pleasant dreams scattered in there, too, and it’s overall much simpler to pretend that he’ll never have to get up again. 

Crowley startles awake thirty-two years later to go use the bathroom. His cottage has fallen into disrepair, but it brightens around him as he moves through it. A cracked window repairs itself, and dust swirls away from where it had settled on all manner of surfaces, and several hundred insects and spiders suddenly decide that they must find a better place to live. Crowley had woken up with the expectation that his property hadn’t had nearly enough time to fall to ruin, and so it hasn’t. The garden frantically puts itself into better shape for when he glances out the window.

It’s a grey day. Rain is intermittently splattering his window, and he wanders downstairs. He expects to find mail for him there, and so he finds an envelope on his dining room table, addressed to him.

The envelope is from the Powers Below, and Crowley reads through sleepy eyes that he’s being congratulated on the absolute atrocities that are happening in America at the moment, in graphic detail.

He shoves the paper back into the envelope and stomps up the stairs and goes right back to sleep for another thirty years. It’s their own stupid fault for thinking he would  _ consider  _ going to America these days.

 

1862 finds him awake and feeling rather like an exposed nerve. He makes a trip into London to try and reacquaint himself with society, and finds that his clothes are horrifically out of date, and that the sun hurts his eyes through his darkened glasses. 

At this point in time, he’s becoming well-acquainted with the heavy, foggy, sort-of-sweaty feeling of being asleep for far too long. It’s making him cranky.

He also finds Aziraphale, in the park just as he hoped, and it’s a relief just to see a friendly face. They start a slow walk towards the pond, and Crowley can hardly keep up with all the news that Aziraphale is heaping onto him about the exciting ventures that Aziraphale has embarked on since he last saw him in 1793. 

He’s thinking about how he can’t keep doing this. He’s thinking about how his last sixty-two years of sleep haven’t  _ begun  _ to take the edge off of the far-reaching, soul-consuming despair that’s creeping up around his mind. 

“Well, how have  _ you  _ been spending your time lately, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, bright-eyed and so  _ at home  _ in his current life. There’s a spring in his step and he’s been chattering about new  _ acquaintances  _ he’s been dining and dancing with and he seems happy. Perhaps Crowley picked the wrong century to completely shut down.

Shutdown aside, Aziraphale has nonetheless taken a polite moment to allow Crowley to say anything at all, and is still looking at him expectantly for an answer.

It’s been almost an hour and Crowley’s dodged every possible chance to admit that he’s, well, been  _ asleep  _ and missed out on all of the wonderful things going on. Such as, the War of 1812. And cholera. 

“Uh--well, to be completely honest. That is to say, eh,” he says. Crowley could mention his garden, or make up something about cholera, or pretend to be proud of the commendations he’s been getting. He could even go off-script and ask Aziraphale to  _ please  _ come visit his cottage and keep it from seeming so grey and  _ please  _ give Crowley some hope that he’s worth something when he’s not irrevocably ruining the lives of humans around him. 

He knows that if the situation was reversed and Aziraphale asked the same, Crowley would do that and more. But they’ve never really been on equal playing ground, in that regard. That is, utter-pathetic-devotion-wise. So he says a noncommittal, “Not much.”

“What do you mean by that?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley blinks. Then he blinks again. Aziraphale is brighter than the mid-day light around them. All that heavenly aura, he supposes.

“I just--haven’t been doing much.” Crowley looks out at the pond, to give his eyes a rest. “Been asleep.”

“Asleep?”

“Yeah, don’t  _ you  _ sleep?” 

“No,” Aziraphale says, looking squeamish. “Bit odd, don’t you think? I don’t quite like to lie still for that long.”

“You’re missing out.” Crowley smiles, all teeth. Seeing Aziraphale gearing up for another round of questions, he quickly changes the subject. “We’ve been here a while,” he says. “Can I meet you again tomorrow?”

“Same time?” Aziraphale asks. “Providing you don’t sleep through it?”

Crowley makes a face at him. He thinks he’s very clever. “I’ll see you.”

 

The next day finds Crowley in the same sour mood. A bit worse, actually, because he had forced himself not to sleep last night, to make sure he doesn’t wake up fifteen years from now, having left Aziraphale waiting.

Something’s just occurred to him, as a solution to his current frame of mind, and he needs to ask before Aziraphale needs to leave for--whatever dinner function he said he was attending. 

His reasoning is twofold: first, if he’s going to continue to be a bad demon, he’s going to need insurance against whoever comes to collect him. And second, if things  _ really  _ get bad, he’ll need...well, insurance.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, not waiting for Aziraphale to say hello. “What if it all goes wrong?”

Aziraphale just feeds the ducks. He’s glowing even more than yesterday, but Crowley doesn’t ask what he’s been up to that has him so happy.

“We have a lot in common, you and I,” Crowley says. He may or may not have spent the last twelve hours coming up with a careful script for this conversation.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says, wrinkling his nose. “We may have both started off as angels, but  _ you _ are Fallen.”

Crowley is not in the right mood for this. He mumbles some nonsense downplaying the extreme trauma that Falling had done to both his body and mind, and then blurts, “I need a favor.”

Aziraphale is interested. He looks over at Crowley, with a curious, “We already have the Agreement. To stay out of each other’s way. Lend a hand when needed.”

“This is something else.” Crowley is watching a duck try to fit an entire heel of bread in its mouth, but even that isn’t going to distract him. “For if it all goes pear-shaped.”

“I like pears,” Aziraphale says. Prick.

Despite Aziraphale’s best attempts to derail the conversation, Crowley presses on. “If it all goes wrong,” he maintains, “I want insurance.”   
“What?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley gives him the note. He never really got the hang of reading and writing, like his angel, but he figures the two words are legible enough. And while Crowley is nervous that Aziraphale knows him well enough to know  _ exactly  _ what his intentions are, he’s already asked and it’s too late to back out now.

“Out of the question,” Aziraphale says. He  _ knows  _ something’s wrong. He’s looking Crowley over with genuine concern, probably taking into account the bags under Crowley’s eyes and the minimal effort he’s put into his hair and clothes. 

“Why not?” Crowley challenges.

“It’d  _ destroy  _ you,” Aziraphale tells him, voice softer than even the clandestine meeting calls for. Crowley could actually curl up in the warmth of that tone and fall asleep for another hundred years, thinking somebody actually cares. “I’m not bringing you--a suicide pill.”

“That’s not what I want it for!” Crowley hisses. He shoves the note back at Aziraphale, getting more desperate by the second. “Just for insurance.”

Aziraphale pauses, looking intently at Crowley again. Crowley, resolute, doesn’t look over at him.

“I’m not an  _ idiot _ , Crowley,” Aziraphale says.  

Crowley doesn’t say, “All evidence to the contrary.” He doesn’t say, “Please keep talking.” He doesn’t ask, “Am I worth anything more than an Arrangement to you?”

“Do you know how much  _ trouble  _ I could get in--if,” Aziraphale looks, not-very-discretely, upwards, “ _ they  _ knew I was-- _ fraternizing _ .”

It takes about three centuries’ worth of self-discipline for Crowley not to scream, “ _ Fraternizing _ ?”

“Yes, well,  _ whatever  _ you wish to call it.” 

Aziraphale is withdrawing. He looks more annoyed than worried, now, which is fine. Crowley is done with this. He can get his own stupid holy water if he needs it. 

“I don’t think there’s any point in discussing it further,” Aziraphale says.

“I have lots of other people to  _ fraternize  _ with, angel,” Crowley lies.

“Of course you do.” Aziraphale turns and begins to leave. 

“I don’t need you.”   
“Oh, and the feeling is mutual.” Aziraphale turns, angry, face hardened. “Obviously.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale attempt to throw Crowley’s note into the pond, and watches as the note catches on fire, and watches Aziraphale go, running into a bush in an undignified manner that would, on any other day, make Crowley laugh. Only now does he regret chasing away his only company in this current century, but he’s accustomed to a base level of loneliness. It’s almost comforting, how familiar it is to be completely alone. Almost.

“ _ Obviously _ ,” Crowley mocks, just to himself and the ducks, and decides to go back to Suffolk.

 

He doesn’t wake up on his own, next time. A loud knock on his front door echoes through his house, startling him up from where he’d been facedown on his couch, half of his face vaguely damp from some unattractive drooling. 

It takes him a few moments to come back to himself, blinking stupidly at the dusty floor next to him and trying to ignore the nasty taste in his mouth, but then there’s another knock, more insistent this time. Based on the kind of people that would pay Crowley a visit, he knows it’s only a matter of time before this person just opens his door and comes in on their own. 

Sure enough, he hears the door creak open, and then cautious steps in the entry hall. 

“Crowley?” comes Aziraphale’s voice, calling up through the house. His footsteps creak on the floor. 

Crowley groans and shoves his face back into a throw pillow. He’s glad it’s Aziraphale, if anyone, but it’s still going to be an uncomfortable conversation. He can’t find it in himself to clean up his appearance, or to sit up, or to put on a persona of a demon who’s doing just  _ fine _ . Over the past few decades (it must have been decades, because his back is awfully sore and that doesn’t happen for mere ten-year naps), his hair has grown back out into something he likes more, but he’d thankfully gotten rid of the horrendous facial hair he’d had before he’d gone to sleep. 

It’s less effort, to just let Aziraphale see him as he is.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says again, but now he’s much closer. He’s standing in the doorway of the study.

Crowley turns his head, blinking exhausted eyes at the angel. 

Aziraphale looks rather unchanged from last time, but his face is still kind and open and beautiful, and is right now creased with confusion. “Oh, hello,” he says, awkward. 

“You broke into my house,” Crowley mumbles. His voice creaks and breaks, rough from the years he hasn’t used it. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Well, yes. I was a bit worried.”

Crowley’s eyebrows raise, a weird warm feeling growing in his chest. “Worried? About me?”

“A bit.” Aziraphale glances up, sideways, down, taking in the disrepair of the dark room around him. Finally, his eyes are turned back on Crowley. “Are you quite alright?”

“Never been better,” he says.

Aziraphale frowns.

“What year is it?” Crowley asks. He finally pushes himself up into a sitting position, and sinks into the arm of the couch in a rather rumpled recline. 

“Nineteen oh two,” Aziraphale says. “When was the last time you were awake?”

“You were there, angel,” Crowley says. Now that he’s upright, he’s feeling cold and a bit out of sorts. 

“What--you’ve been asleep for  _ forty years _ ?”

“Not so loud,” Crowley pleads, wincing. 

Aziraphale crosses the room, and perches on the couch next to Crowley. The amount of willpower it takes for Crowley to not slump sideways and rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder is staggering. 

“Are you ill?” Aziraphale finally asks. 

“What? No.”   
“I thought demons didn’t need sleep.”

“Yes, well, this one does.” Crowley looks at the throw pillow that had previously cushioned his head, and he thinks that perhaps he would like to have another fifty years’ sleep, if conversations are always this tiring. 

He’s almost startled out of his skin by the feeling of a soft hand on the side of his face. Crowley goes very still, and stares at Aziraphale, who is in the process of gently fixing Crowley’s hair, a strand of which had been stuck to the side of Crowley’s face.

Aziraphale, silent, gently tucks the strand behind Crowley’s ear, and Crowley watches him. 

“There,” Aziraphale says. If Crowley isn’t imagining things, the angel’s voice has dropped lower, suddenly, and his eyes are pointedly fixed on Crowley’s hair instead of making eye contact. “It suits you, I think.”

“Thanks,” Crowley manages. Aziraphale’s hand is cupped to the side of his head, still--unnecessary, but not unwelcome. The kind touch is a much better way to readjust to being awake, even if the sensation is almost too much for him to bear. 

Aziraphale’s eyes meet his, full of a strange intensity that threaten to burn Crowley’s own eyes out of his skull. “I would rather like it if you would come join us, back in the world.”

“Really?” Crowley asks. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “There’s so much happening. I don’t want you to miss it.”

“It would make your job easier if I just disappeared,” Crowley points out. 

Aziraphale doesn’t laugh. They’re so close together, and Aziraphale is still touching Crowley’s face. “Regardless, it was odd not having you around,” he says. “I think I’m becoming somewhat fond of you.”

Crowley  _ could  _ tell him about how he’s been head-over-heels for Aziraphale since the Garden. He  _ could  _ ruin the moment by reassuring Aziraphale that he preferred sleep to his company. He  _ could  _ just slump forward and push his face into Aziraphale’s chest and wish for Aziraphale to envelop him in a hug. 

Instead, Crowley says, “Ngk.” 

He says, “Sk. Eh, hrm. Well.”

He says, “Shut up,” and breaks eye contact.

Aziraphale’s hand falls away from his face, as if Aziraphale had just remembered himself, and Crowley misses the touch immediately.

“Let me buy you lunch,” Crowley says, in a rush, frightened that he’s just offended Aziraphale somehow. 

When he looks up, Aziraphale doesn’t appear to be offended at all. His face is still soft, as is the reassuring pat he gives to Crowley’s arm. “Sounds delightful.”

Aziraphale offers him a hand up, and even helps him to straighten out his clothes and pin up his hair, and then the two of them leave the house together. 

“How did you even find me?” Crowley asks, as they stroll towards town to find a coffeehouse or something of the sort. 

Aziraphale blinks, not answering for a moment. “I was concerned, so I started looking. And I just had the strangest feeling that you thought I would find you. So I did.” He smiles at Crowley. “Perhaps your powers aren’t just for bad.”

“Unlikely,” Crowley says. He rolls his eyes, but the dark cloud that’s been hanging over him is beginning to disperse. That was exactly what he needed to hear.


End file.
